All that Glisters
by MissTempleton
Summary: Even a trip to the jeweller's can be an opportunity for Fisher & Williams ...
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

"Jack, we've spoken about this before."

"No, I don't think we have."

"Well, I have. And you agreed with me."

"You're going to have to remind me what form my agreement took. And if it was because I snored at the right moment in your monologue, it doesn't count. It's your birthday – of course I'm going to give you a present."

He stepped back and tipped his head to one side, nodding judiciously.

"I was right. Jade suits you very well."

She cast him a darkling look.

"As long as you only mean the stones, not the epithet, oh-husband-of-mine."

"How could I mean anything but the stones?" he asked innocently; then turned her to face the mirror. She glared at her reflection, then lifted her head and turned it to one side and the other, as the teardrop-shaped pendants in her ears swung gently.

And she reflected on the kind of liberal man who could approach Lin Chung to find exactly the right birthday gift for his wife, who also happened to be Lin's former concubine.

 _You've come a long way, my Jack. Thank you for bringing me with you._

"We should go downstairs," he suggested. "Either there's a shootout going on in the parlour, or Mr Butler just popped a champagne cork."

She met his eyes in the glass. The way she was feeling right now, she'd cheerfully take either option; though the champagne would probably be exhilarating enough, and definitely more sociable. And she'd hate to lose an earring if it came to a fistfight.

Jade suited her, after all.

There were few places in the whole of Melbourne that could compare to 221B The Esplanade when Miss Fisher was in party mood. The champagne flowed extravagantly; the red raggers, as usual, stuck to beer but even Jane partook of a glass or two, and became flushed and loquacious. Phryne watched her but preferred she learn her lessons in these safe environs and did nothing to curtail her; her instinct was rewarded when the girl decided she didn't like stumbling over her words and switched to lemonade.

The gramophone was wound and rewound, until the Inspector was persuaded to sit at the piano to accompany raucous (and, once Jane had gone to bed, bawdy – Mrs Colllins flushed but giggled indulgently) singing. Mr Butler kept the canapés coming.

The only casualty of any note was Dr Elizabeth Macmillan's wrist watch. When she caught Cec in a particularly exuberant dance spin, his cuff caught her watch strap and dragged it so hard that it gave way. The glass not being designed to win a war with the tiles surrounding the fireplace, there was a temporary lull in proceedings while Mac gave vent to some choice curses, Mr B swept up the broken glass and Miss Fisher, concerned that the party mood was dissipating, insisted that she would arrange for it to be mended First Thing In The Morning and did anyone want more champagne?

Jack muttered _sotto voce_ to Mac that she should let Phryne have her way, and returned to the keyboard, inviting Mrs Robinson to stop bossing everyone about and come and sing them a song.

She chose Ain't Misbehavin', which made up in droll delivery what it lacked in verisimilitude. The crowd went wild, and demanded an encore; so she sang Embraceable You. Mr Robinson heckled the line "You and you alone bring out the gipsy in me" and then joined in the singing, and all of a sudden there seemed to be an awful lot of dust in the room, because everyone's eyes were oddly irritated. The pianist gently played the closing bars and rewarded the chanteuse with a kiss on the hand, and a look which reminded Mrs Collins to remind Constable Collins that they had a babysitter to get home to, and Dr Mac that her first case was at UnGodly-O-Clock in the morning and even Bert and Cec found they didn't need any more beer, thanks.

(No-one knew at what point Mr Butler ceased to be in the room, but that was rather a speciality of his).


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

In the maelstrom of pre-Christmas Bourke Street, Lampeter's was a haven of calm.

Given the rowdy bunch of diggers pounding away behind Phryne's eyes when she took Mac's watch in to be repaired the next day, that was just as well. Mr Robinson had offered to see to the chore, but his wife was a woman of honour, and claimed responsibility equally for the breakage and its repair.

The bell over the door tinkled gently as she edged through and closed it behind her, leaning against it, shutting her eyes in relief at the respite from the crowd.

"Can I help you, ma'am?"

She jumped. The shop was apparently staffed by several of Mr Butler's friends and relations, aided and abetted in their stealth by a carpet that was as rich and thick as most of the clientele.

Wait, where had _that_ barbed notion sprung from, she wondered? Then saw the saccharine smile on the face of the gentleman approaching her and realised it had been pure osmosis, or suggestion – he had identified her as possessing both of the carpet's qualities.

That was what happened when the last bottle of champagne was taken to bed and largely consumed by the lady of the house. She had, on this occasion, only herself to blame; on the other hand, there was a suitable victim on whom she could exact revenge.

"Yes. Mend this for me."

Her tones were clipped and bored. She presented him with a small box containing Mac's watch, wrapped carefully in a handkerchief edged with Dot's loving handiwork; then collapsed on a chair in front of one of the display cabinets, carefully lit to make the rings it contained sparkle in a subtly enticing fashion.

He accepted the box as though it contained the Holy Grail, carefully unwound its contents and nodded appreciatively.

"A beautiful piece, if I may say so. We can certainly see to this. I regret, though, that it is not something we can do straight away."

He was doing his best to imitate her London 'society' accent. The difference was that she'd been there.

"Don't be silly, of course you can. It's a Rolex Tank. You have four in your window. If you don't have spare watch glasses for them, you're a more of a fool than I take you for," she said loudly and coldly.

Attention was being drawn, and the hapless assistant did his best to resume invisibility.

"I shall certainly go and check with our workshop, ma'am if you'll excuse me?" he oiled. Only the twist of his lips gave away how much it cost him not to put a dissolute flapper in her place.

She ignored him, and he left.

She switched her gaze to the cabinet, satisfied that no matter what his assessment of her wealth or cognitive powers, she'd be leaving with a mended wristwatch.

The rings were sapphire, arranged in regimented ranks according to colour – which meant that the most expensive were on the top rank and to the right. Their purplish-blue beckoned lovingly, and mocked their paler neighbours. Phryne wondered and … sure enough, as soon as she showed consistent interest in the top right corner, another young man came to sit opposite her.

Sitting was less threatening than standing, and made the customer more likely to respond.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" he remarked, matter-of-factly. Phryne looked up and caught him genuinely admiring the stones, not waiting for her response.

"Stunning," she replied, equally unemotional.

"Try one?" he offered.

"Love to. I'm not buying," she said.

"I know," he agreed. "Quite right too. Never shop with a hangover."

In that instant, a new bond was formed, and though he didn't yet know it, Phryne had a new favourite jeweller.

He gave her an assessing glance, and unlocked the cabinet. She already knew he wasn't going to reach for his priciest offering, but she hadn't even glanced at the corner he went for.

She slipped the ring on her finger. The setting was simple and burned orange.

She looked up at him, a question in her eyes.

"Yes, it's a sapphire."

"I love it. I'll take it."

"No, you won't."

Startled and slightly angered, she gave him a disbelieving glare.

"I am happy to put it aside for you for a week. Today, you are angry, and you have a headache. You might decide tomorrow that buying this ring was a huge mistake, and we will never see you again. If, when you are rested, you still want to buy it – and I think you will – you will be happy to have done so, and come back because you trust us." He paused, and smiled shyly. "My name is Lucas. If you come again, please ask for me."

She smiled back.

"Thank you, Lucas. You have restored my faith in Lampeter's."

As they both stood, the first assistant bustled back into the room.

"Ma'am, I'm delighted to say that we have indeed found a replacement glass. If you can possibly wait for fifteen minutes, the repair will be complete." He paused for effect, and beamed. "I am happy to say that the repair of the strap will be undertaken at no extra cost."

"That'll be the day," muttered Phryne, knowing full well that the quoted price for the glass would be inflated by the cost of the strap.

"Can I perhaps show you some of these rings while you are waiting, ma'am?"

"No, but I'd kill for a coffee," replied Phryne.

His demeanour was becoming more and more forced, but he marched off to secure a cup full of something which was definitely brown and slightly warm. Whether it was coffee was … debatable.

Lucas observed her grimace and provided a glass of water. It was only water, but it was wonderfully chilled. As she was about to thank him, though, there was an eruption of shouting from the workroom at the back of the shop.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"I told you, I haven't touched the bloody things!"

"And I _know_ you're the only person who could have. Fifty perfectly matched pearls, and now there are six missing. That's it, I'm going to Mr Lampeter right now. I've had enough of you sabotaging my work."

Phryne's ears were pricked but she affected nonchalance; she handed Lucas back the ring and watched him place it carefully in a box to be set aside for her, as though there wasn't a war breaking out twenty yards away.

"A lot of weather we're having today, ma'am," he remarked calmly.

It took her a moment to process the statement before she grinned.

"Indeed. An unusual occurrence?"

The passing of a Fisher &Williams business card would only have been spotted by a secret service operative.

"Not lately," he remarked. "And not ideal when one has a certain … front to present to the clients. Might it be worth my while mentioning your presence to Mr Lampeter, Miss Fisher?"

She considered. On the one hand, her head still ached. On the other, she'd promised Dot a share of profits, and lately their case load had been rather heavy in the area of Assisting the Police. While they both enjoyed Assisting the Police when the Police in question were Detective Inspector Jack Robinson and Senior Constable Collins, it had to be said that neither gentleman's work would normally be lucrative for the business of Fisher & Williams.

"If you think I can help, then by all means do, Lucas. I'm very discreet, so if the answer's no, you're no worse off." She leaned back, sipped icy water and resolved that not even on her birthday would she consume a whole bottle of champagne after Lights Out (as it were) in future.

Open warfare had apparently been relocated to the bowels of the building, so at least she had the chance to collect her thoughts in peace and quiet for a few minutes. She still eyed covetously the box containing the ring that Lucas had given her to try, but she'd decided she liked him, so she was going to pay him the (for her) ultimate compliment of allowing him to be the expert on her wishes.

She didn't have to wait long, in the event. Lucas was back within minutes.

"Mr Lampeter says that if you're the same Miss Fisher who was so helpful to Miss Lawless, he would like to do himself the honour of calling on you later today."

Phryne smiled.

"Please inform Mr Lampeter that I am delighted Miss Lawless thought me helpful, and four o'clock will suit me very well." She then ruined her dignified reply with a less dignified follow-up. "At least that way I'll get the chance to get rid of this head." Lucas grinned charmingly, and bowed her out.

She was in the Hispano on the way home before she realised that she'd forgotten to collect Mac's watch, but she needn't have worried. When Mr Butler tapped on the door of her parlour, he was accompanied by a very short, very fat gentleman with a sweating forehead, a worried expression and a gift-wrapped box in his hand.

Phryne assessed him swiftly.

"Cocktails, Mr Butler, please. Do come in, Mr Lampeter."

She graciously accepted the repaired wristwatch ("No charge, Miss Fisher, I insist") and made determined small talk about the business of the pre-Christmas season in the jewellery trade, his acquaintance with Miss Lawless of the famous chain of department stores and the kind of stones most favoured by the ladies of Melbourne until Mr Butler had returned with something citrus and slightly effervescent in two glasses. It was the right decision. Mr Lampeter took a sip, his shoulders dropped a little, he sat back a little in his chair, and he stopped looking at her as though she was an angry tigress about to do something unpredictable.

(She was, it must be admitted, a bit of a dab hand at playing unpredictable tigresses, but this was a client and she'd rather he saw her as more of a sphinx).

"How can I help, Mr Lampeter?"

"It's theft, Miss Fisher. Lots of it. Unbearable quantities of it. Unsustainable."

He took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow mournfully.

"I'm not exaggerating when I say that if it doesn't stop soon, I'll be ruined."

She gave him a quizzical look. "Surely your insurers will reimburse you?"

He sighed. "They did at first, but now they're saying that we're a bad risk and they're even threatening not to renew my cover."

"Do you have any idea who the thief is?"

"NO!" He was too insistent.

"Mr Lampeter, I'll take your case if you'll be honest with me. I won't take it if you only give me half the information and expect me to work miracles. I definitely won't take the case if you won't accept what I find."

He hastily reassured her on all counts, and she pulled out a silk-bound notebook.

"First of all, I need to know about everyone who works in your shop, or has worked there since – let's say six months before the thefts began." She'd find out later who it was that he suspected, but didn't want to be found guilty.

The oleaginous salesman, it appeared, was called Percival; and the argumentative magicians in the workshop were Declan (of the perfectly matched pearls) and Cosmo who, it appeared, was a silversmith. There had also been a saleswoman who had married and moved to Queenscliff the previous month, and a trainee who had spent a couple of weeks with them in August.

"I would have liked to replace Audrey – she was very good at helping the gentleman clients choose gifts," sighed Mr Lampeter. "But there simply isn't the money."

"And the trainee? Surely he wasn't very expensive?" asked Phryne, scribing industriously.

Lampeter shook his head. "Wilfred? No, not expensive, but not much use either, I'm afraid. I took him on as a favour to his father – Scott, you know? Owns the Caledonian Hotel just opposite my shop?"

She knew it, but hadn't darkened its doors, or met Mr Scott.

"What was wrong with young Wilfred, then?" she persisted.

"Too hamfisted to help in the workshop and rather rude to the customers, so I couldn't really have him on the shop floor either," said Lampeter simply. "I did my best – I like Harry Scott – but in the end I just had to send Wilfred home. I think he's working in the hotel again now."

Phryne put down her pen and sipped her cocktail, considering.

"Apart from the staff, is there anyone else who has access to the shop's valuables? How are they stored?"

"The shop itself has bars on the windows and door at night; in the workroom, we have a safe where all the stones are stored. It has a combination lock, and only me, Cosmo and Declan know the code." He fixed her with a worried gaze.

"I can see why they might fight, then," she commented caustically. "If they're taking you out of the equation, that only leaves the other member of the workroom as the likely culprit. How long have they been with you?"

"Cosmo came to me three years ago; Declan's been with us for nearly ten now." He was clearly distressed at the notion that either man could betray him so cruelly.

"Give me a list of everything that's gone missing, and Cosmo and Declan's addresses. Tomorrow is Sunday; my associate Miss Williams and I will call upon them," stated Phryne firmly.

He mournfully did as she said, and took himself off.

Phryne went to the telephone.

"Dorothy, is that you? Dot, we've got a case. A nice, sparkly one."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Mrs Lampeter was seated at her dressing table when her husband returned home.

"Oh, Norm, there you are. You'll need to hurry and get ready, the party starts in an hour, and it'll take almost that long to get there" she exclaimed as she fastened an earring. "Did you bring the tiara?"

He bent to kiss her cheek dutifully, and produced the box. His wife opened it, and studied the contents with a practised eye.

"Good. They've done well – you really can't tell the replacement stones from the originals, and the silverwork has come up beautfully."

He agreed with her assessment of his workshop's expertise as he hurriedly exchanged his suit for evening dress. Calling her maid to help, Mrs Lampeter settled the tiara on her head.

"Ouch!" she squealed. "Careful, Brewster!"

"Sorry, ma'am" apologised the maid.

"Gosh, those tines on the comb are sharp," grumbled Mrs Lampeter, touching her head gingerly. "I think they've cut me!"

"Do you want me to have another go, ma'am?" offered the maid.

"No, no, leave it, it's on now. Norm, are you ready?"

He was, and followed his wife as she bustled from the room. He'd really rather have been settled quietly by his own hearth that evening, but Mrs Lampeter liked a nice party.

He was a little concerned though, as midnight approached, that she was enjoying it rather too much. He'd not exactly been counting the drinks, but she was definitely a bit off balance, and some of her words were coming out quite slurred.

"Oh, Norm," she said as she grasped at his arm, "I feel a bit poorly."

"Come on, love," he patted her hand, "let's get you home."

If anything, getting her into the house was even harder than getting her to the car had been – her limbs might have been made of jelly for all the use they were. The couple stumbled up the stairs, and he started undressing her, ringing repeatedly for the maid. Where was the dratted girl?

Eventually he gave up, put his wife to bed himself and wearily changed into pyjamas. She was panting heavily, and it took him a long time to get to sleep.

It took Mrs Lampeter even longer; and the difference between them wasn't just the drink.

Mr Lampeter woke at seven o'clock sharp, as usual.

Mrs Lampeter didn't wake up at all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Sunday morning was not something Phryne felt terribly strongly about; she could quite happily leave it be, and was grateful when it offered her the same courtesy. Jack was also rather getting used to the civilising effect of _not_ getting up the instant one woke (especially if there happened to be a rather delicious lady detective in the vicinity).

Mr Butler was aware of their matutinal habits, and would therefore have given a great deal not to have had to tap on the door before the clock had even struck nine.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir, but I'm afraid you're wanted urgently on the telephone."

Jack groaned. Mr B's timing _could_ , in principle, have been worse; but it could have been so very, very much better. The sound Phryne made as she buried her head under the covers made it, if anything, even more difficult to drag himself away.

"Thank you, Mr Butler," was all he said, though, and reached for his robe.

There was a giggle the depths of the quilt.

"What?" he growled.

"I was _so_ hoping you were going to tell him you were just coming" said the voice, and the body from which it emanated appeared to be starting to shake with mirth.

He debated for a second whether to dignify such prurience with a response, and decided for the moment to ignore it and hurry downstairs to the telephone.

"Jack Robinson."

"Sir, sorry to bother you but I'm afraid we've got a suspicious death. Well, two suspicious deaths, actually."

He sighed.

"Address?" He scribbled it on the pad beside the telephone. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

Calling a request to Mr B for some coffee and a pastry that he could eat in the car, he plodded back up the stairs. Mrs Robinson appeared not to have moved since he'd left – all that could be seen were the soles of her feet sticking out from under the covers.

 _Perfect_.

There were perhaps more exotic forms of revenge to be had, but within seconds she was begging for mercy.

Mrs Robinson had very, very ticklish feet.

He then dressed swiftly as she sat up, cursing him fluently and wiping the tears of hilarity from her eyes.

"I hope it's nothing less than a murder that drags you away from your wife's loving arms, Inspector."

The hesitation as he knotted his tie was infinitesimal, and she wasn't watching him so she didn't notice. She probably wasn't aware she'd never spoken of love, he reasoned; and equally, he probably shouldn't put too much weight on the way she'd done it then.

"Could be," he replied lightly. "Two bodies, anyway."

"Can I …?"

"No."

This time they _did_ meet eyes in the mirror.

"I admit you are enormously helpful at the scene of a crime, but I can't just casually bring the missus along, Phryne. You know it as well as I do."

She slumped back onto the pillows, but didn't sulk for long.

"Dot and I have to go and do a couple of interviews for our case anyway. A spate of robberies from a jeweller's."

"I'll see you later then." He swooped for a quick kiss goodbye, and she responded warmly, to demonstrate her forgiveness for his earlier torture. Almost too warmly.

"No _hard feelings_ , Jack?" she grinned.

He snorted. "Try to remember what good behaviour felt like last time you tried it, Phryne." But she was incorrigible.

"Oh, darling, you should know by now _just_ how good my behaviour can feel …" She sprang out of bed as though to chase him out of the door, but he hastily closed it in her face, chuckling to himself as he ran down the stairs. She leaned her back against the self-same door and smiled broadly.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Jack faced Mac across the table in the Morgue; the doctor had not been pleased to be called in on a Sunday, and she was going to make sure the Inspector knew it. Constable Hugh Collins read the expression on her face and tried to pretend he wasn't there at all.

"What, no Miss Fisher?" she mocked.

"On another case," he explained briefly. "Help me with this one, Mac, it doesn't make a great deal of sense to me. It looks like some kind of poisoning, but I don't know how or when it might have been introduced. And if the maid's cause of death was the same, it makes even less sense. They were in completely different buildings in completely different parts of the city when they were taken ill. Was it something slow-acting? And even if someone had something against Mrs Lampeter, why on earth kill the maid too?"

Mac relented, and picked up the notes.

"Oh-kay …. The cause of death was respiratory failure, that much is clear. Your report – dreadful handwriting, Jack, have you ever thought of a career as a doctor? Next time I'm going to insist you type it up first, and I don't care how urgent it is – your report says the deceased had appeared drunk at the party, inconsistent with the amount of alcohol taken. So, I'm guessing slurred speech, poor balance, knocking stuff over – right so far?"

Jack nodded.

"Getting her home and to bed was difficult – again, like a drunk, her limbs weren't supporting her. She was panting when her husband got her to bed."

She handed the clipboard to Jack and leaned both hands on the table.

"There are a couple of things that spring to mind, and neither of them is something I can really look for. The first is a thing that I was reading a research paper about a few weeks ago - Guillain–Barré syndrome, a type of attack on the nervous system."

She glanced across the room at the other shrouded corpse.

"The trouble with that is that it's very rare, and it can take weeks to incubate. The likelihood of me having two victims of Guillain–Barré in the same morgue at the same time is so low as to merit not just a piece in the Lancet, I'd be applying to His Holiness for a confirmed miracle."

She straightened and met his eyes. "I think you can be reasonably confident in looking for a source of botulism."

"Botulism? Is that as in food poisoning?" asked Jack.

"Absolutely."

"But you're asking me to look for something consumed only by Mrs Lampeter and her maid in – how long?"

"Allowing at least six hours for incubation, I'd say you could include lunch, at a stretch, afternoon tea, definitely. You're looking for either something they ate, or could be introduced through an open wound. Or, actually, fingers touching mouth or eyes."

He grimaced.

"So you're saying I can look at anything they ate or touched and touched their eyes or mouth afterwards? Not sure I should thank you for that, Mac – but thanks all the same."

"You're welcome. Where's my watch?"

"Oh," he smacked a hand to his forehead. "I should have brought it. It's fixed, and it's on the mantelpiece at home." He quirked the half-grin that, while leaving her cold, made her well understand what her old friend Phryne saw in the Detective Inspector. "Come for dinner tonight? I may have some more questions on botulism. Or even on whatsit-thingummy's syndrome."

"Yes please," she said immediately. She was a big fan of Mr Butler's cooking, and was quite prepared to coach Idiot Policemen in the dark arts of medicine if it meant she was allowed another go at the beef en croute.

Jack was turning to leave when he stopped, and looked back.

"Hold on – you mentioned an open wound. Did either of them have one?"

Mac checked her notes. "I haven't found anything recent, but I'll double check and let you know."

With that, he had to be content, and decided there was no option but to return to the Lampeter household and find out what everyone had been eating.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Both of the craftsmen from Lampeter's workshop were, Phryne decided, very decorative. In a former life, she might have pursued the acquaintance further, and wondered at her own change of heart which rendered them uninteresting.

Well, Declan was uninteresting because any degree of interest a woman might find in his clever hands and cleft chin was undoubtedly outweighed by his own interest in himself.

 _Narcissism, thy name is Declan_ , she decided, and took only the most cursory note of his rant against his co-worker. She'd once met a boxer with the same issues, and discovered that a fairground ride at Luna Park was more fun than a soiree in the boudoir.

Funnily enough, the differentiating factor had been a certain Detective Inspector then, too.

"What did you think, Dot?" she asked as they climbed back into the Hispano.

"Nothing to go on at all, Miss," said her former-maid-now-investigative-partner said firmly. "If the other bloke can't give us any more, then it'll just be a case of one person's word against another and we're no further forward."

Phryne had been trying for quite some time to get Dot to drop the honorific and just use her name; and she was becoming resigned to the possibility that it might never happen.

Cosmo was uninteresting for entirely different reasons.

A young woman answered the door when they knocked, and showed them through to the kitchen where a late lunch was in the process of being tidied away. A stocky, fair-haired young man was up to his arms in soapsuds. A tea towel was being deployed efficiently by Lucas.

"Cosmo, these ladies are here to see you," announced the girl. She gave Phryne and Dot a cheerful smile. "Don't let him bore you. He's my brother, I know what he's like. I'm going to get back to my essay."

The cleaner-uppers voiced assent, and she vanished up the stairs of the tiny house.

Phryne pulled out a chair at the kitchen table, and gestured Dot to do likewise. Lucas continued to dry the same plate that he'd had in his hands since they'd walked in the door.

"Lucas," said Phryne calmly. "I had no idea that you would be here. We have to ask Cosmo a couple of questions. Is that all right?"

"Of course," said Lucas quickly. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"No reason at all, but if you aren't trying to rub the pattern off that plate, you can stop drying it now."

The washer-upper, in the meantime, was looking from one speaker to the other in mystified fashion. Lucas handed him the towel to dry his hands, and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"It's all right, Cosmo. Miss Fisher came to the shop yesterday. It's about the thefts isn't it, Miss?"

Phryne agreed, and wondered whether Dot had picked up the silent messages being telegraphed between the two young men.

 _Well, my virtue's safe from these two,_ anyway, she reflected; and realised that the entire thought process had been gratuitous. An important decision was made, and filed away for future action by the committee of one.

Again, though, the interview itself was inconclusive. Yes, both Cosmo and Declan had had projects disrupted by thefts of precious stones; yes, their security methods were scrupulous – they would even lock their work away in the safe when they went out for lunch; no, no-one knew the code apart from the workshop staff and Mr Lampeter.

The two sleuths sat in the car and debated what to do next.

"I don't think either of them did it, Miss," announced Dot. "If Declan did it, he'd at least have been able to afford new shoes – did you see how down-at-heel his were? And I saw the stock that was in the pot on the stove behind Cosmo – must be at least three days boiled, you're not going to tell me they're able to afford a good steak."

"They could be stashing it away, Dot, but I admit it feels unlikely." Phryne sighed. "I think we have to go and see Mr Lampeter again. There's someone missing from the story, I'm sure of it." The Hispano's self starter did its job and Miss Fisher did the rest.

Dot released her hat with relief as the Hispano pulled up outside the Lampeter house. She was accustomed to Phryne's driving style by now, but she would never be able to relax until the handbrake was on.

They both got out of the car and stopped short. Another vehicle was parked in the driveway; one with a familiar number plate. They exchanged glances, and then strode to the front door, where Phryne pulled the bell firmly.

A white-aproned woman opened it for them, and invited them abruptly to come in. She explained that she was the cook, and that she was sorry, and that they were all at sixes and sevens; Phryne reassured her that it didn't matter a bit, and should they just announce themselves?

The door to the drawing room stood ajar, and the sound of voices in the hallway drew one of the occupants to peer round it. Phryne swung around and beamed.

"Hello, Jack."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

"What are you doing here, Miss Fisher?" Jack came out into the hall and pulled the door closed behind him.

"I've come to see my client, Inspector."

"The jeweller? It's Lampeter?"

"That would be a matter of client confidentiality, but I suppose you would find out soon enough. Yes, it's Lampeter."

Then another penny dropped.

"The suspicious deaths?"

He nodded. "You'd better join us." Dot was rapidly put in the picture, and they crept into the drawing room.

Lampeter was the barest shadow of the man she'd met the previous afternoon; instead of worry, he was sunk in deep depression, and so far forgot himself as to remain seated when the ladies entered. Both, however, understood and quietly sank onto couches.

"Mr Lampeter," began Phryne gently, "we've come to give you a progress report on the jewellery thefts, but if you would prefer it, we can come back another time?"

"I don't care about the damn jewellery," he said dully. Then he recalled the company, and apologised. "I'm sorry, Miss Fisher. My wife has died, and her maid too, apparently of the same cause. The financial straits of my company rather pale into insignificance."

"I completely understand," she assured him. "We have, in any case, little to report beyond a belief that you have no reason at this stage to mistrust either of your two craftsmen. That being so, we only hoped to learn whether there was anyone else – anyone at all – who might have had access to the safe. One of the sales staff? A member of the family, even?"

"No," he shook his head slowly. "Only the people in the workroom, and me."

"In that case, Mr Lampeter, we will leave you in peace." She nodded to Dot, and they left as quietly as they'd come. The policemen weren't far behind; Phryne and Dot were still comparing notes outside the door when Jack and Hugh joined them.

"So, Jack, do you have a couple of murders on your hands?" Phryne demanded.

"I still don't know," he admitted. "But at least now you know about it, we can discuss it. I've asked Mac to dinner – I hope that was okay? – and I'd really welcome the chance to talk through what we know so far with her."

"Excellent plan," agreed Phryne. "Dot, do you and Hugh want to join us as well? Can you get Miss Stubbs to stay on for a bit and keep an eye on the twins? We can eat early."

The Collins' agreed, and the teams departed in family, rather than professional units; Hugh and Dot in the police car to return home, negotiate with the sitter and get changed, while Jack and Phryne took the Hispano to 221B The Esplanade. Mr Butler, on being told that the numbers for dinner had swelled from two to five (Jane being Absent-With-Leave at a friend's for the night) didn't bat an eyelid but confirmed that the gazpacho would easily stretch, ma'am, and he could turn the beef fillets into a boeuf en croute and add more vegetables. Mac, they knew, would be delighted at the menu change and Phryne instructed Mr B to open the Lafite.

If the party failed to deliver the necessary inspiration to progress at least one of the cases before them, it wouldn't be the fault of the catering.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Mac was the first to arrive, and got creative with the cocktail cabinet while Mr B looked on indulgently. Knowing her to be a scientist of considerable skill, he had great faith in her ability to come up with something tasty; albeit he sometimes wondered whether perhaps the education of her palate had relied too much in her earlier years on spirits of the surgical variety.

(He was right).

Her take on a Manhattan was certainly … spirited.

The lady of the house gave the concoction her approval, and recommended wholeheartedly that Jack Get Outside One Of These immediately. He was a little more circumspect than she (he was still hoping to achieve some useful thought over dinner, after all) but even so, the party was decidedly merry by the time Mr & Mrs Collins arrived and they all sat down.

As they tasted the spicy, chilled soup, Jack outlined the evidence in relation to the Lampeter household's dining habits.

"Mrs Lampeter's lunch was a cheese soufflé and salad," he began.

"You're not going to tell me her staff had soufflé for lunch," objected Phryne instantly.

"No, they got by with cheese on toast," he confirmed. "As she knew she was going to be going out later, and that there would be food at the party, the cook said that she just had a couple of sandwiches at teatime."

"Raw chicken?" asked Mac, helping herself to more gazpacho from the tureen.

The Inspector gave her the official police Glare for Flippancy. "No – cucumber. So no joy there."

"What about the maid? What did she have for tea?" Dot asked.

"They had some sandwiches too, and then after the Lampeters left for the party, they sat down round the kitchen table and scoffed the rest of the previous day's chocolate cake," Jack replied.

There was a silence, as they all reflected on the challenges of catching botulism from chocolate cake.

"So … " Phryne summarised, "they didn't eat any of the same food apart from the cucumber sandwiches, which the cook ate too and wasn't ill; and in any case, none of the foods they ate was an obvious source of botulism."

"Correct," said the Inspector, glad that someone had grasped the problem.

"Well, on the bright side …" concluded the Constable, "it's almost certainly murder, then, surely?"

Jack agreed that it didn't appear accidental, though he was inclined to question Hugh Collins' assessment of what constituted The Bright Side.

"Oh, Jack!" exclaimed Mac, putting down her spoon in her empty bowl with a clatter. "I meant to say – you were asking about broken skin?"

He lifted an enquiring eyebrow.

"I don't think I'd have found it if I hadn't been looking – on Mrs Lampeter's scalp, an inch or so back from the hairline on her forehead? A series of very small puncture marks."

"Someone _injected_ her with botulism?" asked Hugh in confused tones.

Dot was gazing into space. "Maybe not an injection, Hugh – Miss, did you say they were at a party when she was taken ill?"

Phryne agreed that they were.

"Was it quite a smart party?"

"Yes," replied Jack, "I believe so – why?"

"Would she perhaps have been wearing some kind of headpiece?"

Phryne clapped her hands in excitement. "Of course she would be! Hang on, I'm going to telephone Mr Lampeter _right now_." She leaped to her feet and dashed to the hallway just as Mr Butler came to clear away the soup course.

"Mr Lampeter? Phryne Fisher. I'm so sorry to trouble you, but it is rather important. It might sound like rather an odd question, but was your wife wearing anything on her head to the party? Yes, I'm sorry, I promise it does matter. A tiara? That's very interesting. Where is it now? Well, please can you leave it there, and make sure no-one touches it? Oh – and on that subject, _did_ anyone else touch it?" She listened for his reply, thanked him warmly and ended the call, striding back into the dining room where her audience awaited.

"Excellent sleuthing, Dot! We may have our murder weapon. Mrs Lampeter was wearing a tiara, which was placed on her head by her faithful maid. Mrs Lampeter complained that the tines of the comb were very sharp."

"But how come the maid was infected?" asked Hugh Collins, keeping up with a struggle with this tale of high society behaviour.

"I think I know," said Jack. "Mac, didn't you talk about touching eyes or mouth?"

"Spot on, Detective Inspector," said the doctor admiringly. "The cake?"

"The cake," he confirmed. "I don't suppose they used cake forks around the kitchen table – and even if they did, icing can get everywhere."

There was a collective pause for self-congratulation; then Miss Fisher punctured it.

"You do realise, though, that this makes just one more crime involving the workroom at Lampeter's? Mr L said that they had only just finished remodelling the tiara, and he'd brought it home that day."

"Oh," was the collective effect of three sleuths and a doctor expelling disappointed air. The self-congratulation hadn't lasted long.

Even Mr B's boeuf en croute didn't make a noticeable difference to their ability to solve the problem. No, they didn't think it was either of the two craftsmen – the thefts had been going on for months and there was no wealth to show for it, and little opportunity in any case. The sales staff weren't told the code to the safe.

"Was there anyone who used to work in the workshop and doesn't any more?" asked Jack.

"There were only two former employees in the past year – Lampeter's doesn't have much staff turnover," confirmed Phryne, chasing an elusive mushroom around her plate. "A saleslady and a trainee. Ah. Good point."

She gave Dorothy a direct look. "There was a trainee, who didn't last long, but he had a spell in the workroom as well as on the shop floor. Son of the hotelier across the street, a _very_ good client, according to Mr Lampeter – it pained him to have to send the lad back. Scott …" she recalled. "Wilfred Scott."

"Surely they wouldn't give the safe code to a trainee?" Dot objected.

"No, they probably wouldn't … but if the safe's in full view of the office, a kid with sharp enough eyes could probably work it out by watching. What do you think, Jack?"

He nodded slowly. "What do we know of this young man?"

"Not much," she admitted. "He's the son of a business neighbour who also happens to be a good client, and he's too clumsy to be a craftsman and too rude to be a salesman – though it's a bit of a stretch to see him as a murderer. As far as I know, he went back to work for his father."

"In the hotel?" asked Jack.

She inclined her head. "In, as you say, the hotel. So – what do you say, Inspector? Shall we give Mr B the morning off tomorrow and have breakfast out?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Jack and Phryne had the comfortable option; they shared some reasonable coffee, bacon and eggs at a linen-clothed table. The Caledonian might not be of the scale or luxurious depths of the Windsor, but it clearly understood the importance of the first meal of the day.

The only person who appeared not to be addressing the event with due reverence was a youth with an unfortunate complexion, who could have done with some lessons at the Mr Butler School of Subtlety. The coffee pot was slammed on the table with no offer to pour; plates were stacked noisily next to the customers' ears, and so carelessly that on one occasion their contents were decanted onto the carpet.

The sleuths' eyes met, and Phryne gave a ghost of a wink; there seemed little doubt that this was Master Scott.

They lingered over the coffee until the room was almost empty of other guests, and the rest of the staff had disappeared, leaving the youth to gather up the table linen for the laundry. He did so with ill grace and little patience, especially with the two customers who couldn't get the message that breakfast was over. Eventually, he went to snatch Phryne's saucer as she lifted the cup to her lips.

"I beg your pardon," she remarked icily. "Please put that back."

"Breakfast finished twenty minutes ago," he said sulkily. "Clear out."

"We shall do so the instant we finish our coffee," she responded. "And you are?"

"None o' your business," he mumbled, still clutching the saucer.

"That's all right, Mr Scott, I think we knew anyway," remarked Jack helpfully,

The reaction was exactly as desired. The youth slammed the saucer back down on the table.

"Who told you?" he asked angrily. "Was it that Agnes? She's always trying to get me into trouble."

"I'm quite sure you don't need any help with that, Wilfred," replied Phryne comfortingly. "Anyone who can fail so conclusively at so many careers can almost certainly achieve trouble single-handedly."

"What are you on about?" he shouted, backing away. Jack stood, and pulled a chair across from the neighbouring table.

"Sit down, Wilfred. We're going to have a little chat. My name's Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, and this is Miss Phryne Fisher, and we'd like to ask you about some jewellery."

"Don't know what you're talking about," he said hastily.

"Miss Fisher?" Dot called from the doorway. She held up a handkerchief in which a weighty object was wrapped.

"Come in, Miss Williams," Phryne invited. "Have you found anything?"

"Plenty, Miss Fisher," her partner responded. "I just happened to be passing the staff quarters, and all the doors were simply standing open. Imagine that!"

"Imagine!" agreed Phryne, eyes wide.

"So I went into one of them, and what should I find under the mattress but a whole bundle of lovely sparkly stones." She opened the handkerchief and spilled its contents on to the table.

Wilfred went pale, and leaped to his feet, sprinting for the door – only to be brought up short by the very solid presence of Senior Constable Collins, who suggested that he was in a bit of a hurry, and should really go back and sit down, my lad.

Fatherhood had definitely brought Hugh's ability to patronise along by leaps and bounds, thought Dot admiringly.

Not being given any other options by a man twice his size and considerably stronger, Wilfred did so.

Jack leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, ready for a comfortable chat. "So, Mr Scott, was it difficult to sneak past the sales staff …" he glanced at Miss Fisher.

"Percival and Lucas," she supplied helpfully. He thanked her politely, and turned back to Wilfred. "How on earth did you get past Percival and Lucas, Mr Scott?"

"Back door," he muttered.

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that – there's a back door? Yes, but it's locked at all times, Mr Scott. No-one could get in that way," Phryne disagreed – and successfully drove a perfectly-structured stiletto shoe through Wilfred Scott's Achilles Heel.

"Nah, s'easy," he boasted. "Pressed a key in about five seconds when I was in there learning silversmithing – ruddy stupid job if you ask me, what's wrong with brass?" came the crass aside.

Oh, this one was going to be worth milking, thought Phryne. But she kept a straight face as Jack took up the strain.

"You surely weren't sneaking in during the night, Mr Scott?" he asked with just the right degree of disbelief.

"'Course I was!" he said scornfully. "Well, mostly. Just pick up a few bits an' bobs here and there. Serve that Lampeter right. Should have let me be. So what am I looking at? A few months in jail? No worries. Dad'll get me off anyway," he sneered.

Phryne swallowed her nausea and turned brightly to her business partner.

"Anything else you found in the room, Miss Williams?"

"Not really, Miss Fisher. I didn't want to wait long, you see, because of the smell."

"The smell?"

"Yes, Miss Fisher. There was a terrible smell coming from the rubbish bin."

"How awful, Miss Williams! And in such a high quality establishment as this! What caused the smell?"

"You'll not believe me, Miss Fisher."

"I shall try to suspend disbelief, Miss Williams."

"Someone appeared to have eaten raw fish for supper several days ago, and simply thrown what they didn't eat it in the bin in their room."

"There's no accounting for taste, is there?"

Jack had been following the exchange appreciatively, but felt it was time to intervene.

"Mr Scott, why was there rotten fish in your waste bin?"

Silence.

"Mr Scott, where did the fish come from? And for what purpose was it used?"

Still silence, apart from a rather pathetic snivelling sound.

Miss Fisher glanced around for inspiration, and caught sight of a gentleman of managerial aspect passing the dining room door. She walked swiftly across the room and collared him.

"Are you the manager of the hotel?"

"The duty manager, madam, until the manager arrives in," he glanced at an elegant pocket-watch, "a few minutes."

"Did any of the guests in your restaurant suffer a case of food poisoning last Friday?"

He glanced both ways, and drew her into the dining room, closing the door – he had yet to notice the party at the table.

"Are you from the press?" She confirmed that she was not. "In any case, no, we didn't – but we had a lucky escape. The fish hadn't been stored properly, and had to be thrown away – the whole batch. Chef was furious."

She thanked him warmly, and invited him to explain the situation again to the gentleman in the dark blue suit sitting at the table with one of the hotel's employees.

Wilfred, by this time, was weeping in earnest.

"They'd just get a tummy ache! I wanted her to get a tummy ache, and be sick! That's what it's like. It's what it was like when old man Lampeter told me I didn't have a job any more. And then I came back here and dad told me I was a failure and I'd never be any use for any-thi-i-i-ng," he wailed.

Jack stood and dragged the boy to his feet by one elbow.

"Not content with nearly sending Lampeter's out of business with a series of robberies, you rubbed rotten fish onto the comb of Mrs Lampeter's tiara, to make her ill." He stated it as a fact, and the young man nodded sullenly. Hugh Collins made a note.

"Both Mrs Lampeter and her maid died in the early hours of yesterday morning from a severe dose of botulism, Mr Scott." Wilfred looked at him in sheer horror.

"But … but … I didn't mean …."

"I'll have to ask you to accompany me to the station. Would you," he looked at the manager, who had himself collapsed into a chair and was gazing at Wilfred, aghast, "like to inform Mr Scott senior that his son is at City South police station, please?"

The manager could only nod wordlessly as Constable Collins took charge of the prisoner.

"I wouldn't worry," remarked Jack to Wilfred conversationally. "If your father gets a good enough lawyer, you probably won't hang."

Not even Dot was able to summon up a great deal of pity as the youth was half-led, half-carried away between the two policemen. Though she did make a mental note to pray for him. And for his lawyer.


	11. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

"Phryne?" There were certain circumstances under which the Inspector's voice could apparently drop an octave. This was definitely one of them. The celebration of the successful completion of the Lampeter case had rather taken it out of him.

"Mmmmmmm?" Not so much a reply, more of a purr.

"You know how we've been doing this for a while now?"

That got the dirtiest chuckle _ever_ from the lady detective.

"Have we? Yes, I suppose we have. I believe the apposite aphorism is 'Practice Makes Perfect'", Inspector. Jolly Well Done. I would say on latest evidence that we've both been practicing like mad. Are you looking for a medal? I can have Jane make you a nice one out of champagne caps if you like, though I might not explain what you want it for, if you don't mind. I'd make it myself, but I'm a bit sleepy."

"Er, no. I was actually looking for something else. Well, not looking for it, exactly. More something whose presence I would normally have noticed and … it appeared to be missing."

"Oh, that."

"Yes. That."

The gravity of the situation enabled him to raise his head from the pillow and drag a finger up her cheekbone to try to get her to open her eyes.

He didn't succeed – she screwed up eyes and nose, and buried as much of her face as she could in the pillow to frustrate a second attempt. He tried the rational conversation approach again. Quite why, he wasn't sure – it wasn't as though it had ever worked before.

"Phryne, I thought … well, you usually put your diaphragm in … at night." God, he hated that word. It sounded like a scientific experiment, and anything less scientific than the activity they'd just engaged in would have been hard to imagine. Well, apart from the bit where she … he shelved the thought and tried to focus on the matter in hand.

"Mmm," was the dismissive response from the depths of the pillow.

"Did you forget? I'm sorry, it was stupid of me, I should have stopped …" he said lamely.

That did get a reaction.

She turned her head up a little and sleepily grinned. "Jack, you were no more going to stop than I would abort take-off in the Moth once I got the conditions right."

The grin faded but the smile didn't.

"The conditions were right. I think. Unless you've been an even better actor than I thought, all this time."

Properly confused now, he rolled over on top of her, pinning her hands over her head to force her to face him and speaking in plain language.

"Phryne, we just had sex without protection. I don't understand why you're so relaxed about it."

The smile remained undimmed. She met his gaze through slitted eyes and blinked slowly, like a particularly contented cat.

A knot formed in the pit of his stomach.

His neck could suddenly no longer support his head, and collapsed into the hollow of her shoulder.

"Really? You would?" It was a shuddering whisper of disbelief.

So often, he had been in the role of protector and comforter. This time it was she who gathered him in, and kissed his hair.

"No promises, Jack. You know how chancy this biological nonsense is. But I decided that if you could get into an aeroplane with a face like death and come out asking to learn to fly, the idea of carrying a new life around for nine months might be – forgive the pun – bearable. Or at least, not so terrifying that I couldn't contemplate it."

She lifted his head up to face hers, and when she saw the tears forming in his eyes, became unaccountably gruff in her speech.

"You said it yourself, you dear man, when we walked on the beach – facing challenges is one of the things we do best. And I'm interested to see what kind of child is produced by the chap who steadfastly refuses risk on every occasion and then begs to be taught to fly. Having already, let's face it, married _me_."

The knot had dissolved into butterflies. His voice wasn't quite steady when he tried to joke in reply.

"I know I'm good, Mrs Robinson, but I feel I should point out that this isn't something I can do alone. Said child will also have to be produced by a woman who, when fired upon by a masked stranger, reacts not by shouting for help but by stabbing her assailant in the shoulder."

Her own shoulders shuddered with her silent laughter, then settled again. This time when she spoke it was in more normal tones.

"Two things I insist upon, Jack."

"Hmmn?" He was already discovering aphrodisiac qualities in his wife's fascinating new line of conversation.

"First, if we manage to do this ridiculous thing, we're not doing it without help. A Lot Of Help. There will be at least one nanny. Cancel that. There will be serried ranks of nannies. A veritable regiment of nannies. I'm a big believer in consulting experts. After all, I'm one myself. Just not in this."

"Agreed. As long as I'm allowed to sack any of them that tries to stop me communing with my daughter as and when I please."

"Daughter? Jack, you're not often, er, premature, but …" the rest of the sentence disappeared in giggles. He recovered first.

"And the second?"

"The child learns to fly."

"Oh, I agree. As long as she doesn't mind being in the air."

"And to shoot, come to think of it. Even if it's only defenceless sheets of white paper with black dots in the middle."

"That's three things. So I think it's my turn – she also has to …"

Phryne gasped.

He shifted up and whispered in her ear.

"… _learn to waltz._ "


End file.
